


White

by cardiganfucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apocalypse, Dystopia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:41:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiganfucker/pseuds/cardiganfucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was aware of it. They were all aware of it. Every last person on earth was aware of it. However few there were left. (Revamped)</p>
            </blockquote>





	White

**Author's Note:**

> So I just revamped this. I'm now working on the second chapter.

Sherlock was aware of it. They were all aware of it. Every last person on earth was aware of it. However few there were.

A lot of people say it’s from space. Sherlock knows better. It was never from space. It was always here, always roaming, always existing right under our noses.

The White.

The pure white that makes one mad, eats you from your very core and outwards.

But Sherlock was alive. He didn’t really know how any more.

\---

It had started in Mexico. Panicked the nations a bit like Swine Flu but eventually was forgotten. Patients weren’t allowed to be seen. They were never on the news. 

Now days all you had to do was go down a dark alleyway to see a victim. 

But they had tried to protect the population. Not let the world see The White. The patient’s eyes solid pure white from lid to lid, their shaking cries as it ate at their brain. Depriving them of sanity, of sensibility, of sleep. It was always the sleep that got them. The lack of it. The White would keep a person alive. They didn’t have to eat or move, just be. But the victims did moved. A violent need to lash out and hurt. Victims chattering to themselves, mumbling to an unseen beast that lived behind their eyes. They would die, they always died. But not from anything that was predicted, they died from lack of sleep.

The White crept. It escaped its isolated areas and spread, into every nation, every city, and every home. No one was safe. No one.

\---

Sherlock walked towards what was once a store. He was cautious, but he was always cautious. He wore sunglasses. Everyone did now days. White was the enemy. It was where the madness lived. There was black pant sloshed and splattered onto every surface that had once been white. 

They hadn’t known it in Mexico, but it traveled through the colour. It traveled through the colour white using it as transport, clinging to the colour and let people take it where they may.

Sherlock had a gun. Well two guns. Another thing everyone owned.

In the early days victims weren’t known to be violent. They would be locked away in their nice quiet cells and expected to stay there till they rot. No one saw the rage.

Once it was no longer an option to put people in cells, half the worlds population didn’t fit all that well, people on the streets started to panic. They would get it, they would run, they would attack and tear at people. Blindly, in every meaning of the words, try to take down the ones who didn’t have it. Make the healthy suffer as they did, make them loose their wits. Or maybe it wasn’t them at all, just The White forcing them too. Nobody knew the difference and nobody was going to take the time to find out.

He had two handguns shoved in the pockets of his coat. His hands were tucked in the front pockets with them, safety off, fingers constantly on the trigger.

That’s why it completely threw him for a loop when someone from behind grabbed him and dragged him rather violently into a back alley.

\---

Dirty fingers clamped over his mouth while short legs wrapped around Sherlock’s body causing him to fall backwards into an old box, with an arm wrapped around his neck.

He could feel lips pressed on the edge of his ear and a faint but stern whispering.

“Hold very still. I’m saving your life.”

\---

He wasn’t being mugged. He knew that for a fact. Money wasn’t important anymore. Nothing was important anymore but survival. 

But the person behind him wasn’t letting him move.

Stay calm. Fingers, strong, uncovered which is odd, callused, dirty, smell of blood, jam, cement, and hand sanitizer. Short but trained, police officer? Unlikely. Military? From the headlock? Obvious. Standard iss- 

He was thrown off again when the man moved his arm and locked his hands in a ridiculously tight hold on Sherlock’s shoulders.

A slow moving group of victims came by. They were chattering away incoherently and if one didn’t know better, they’d think they were following each other. They shuffled past Sherlock and the man. The man carefully used Sherlock’s shoulders and guided him backwards down the alleyway. Around a corner where he let go.

Sherlock turned around.

The man who had been holding him was in fact short. Much shorter then Sherlock but also just short in general. He had his hands and feet wrapped in what looked like medical bandages, but he had no shoes or gloves. His coat was tattered but so was Sherlock’s. The most curious thing however was the cloth tied around his eyes.

“Sorry about that mate. Just, knew they were coming.” He smiled uncomfortably, turned, and walked away.

\---

Sherlock went back home. Back to 221B and Martha Hudson. Not long after The White began taking people in London left and right, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson teamed up. She stopped being his landlady after she killed three victims trying to break into their house by herself whilst on a rare occasion he slept. They bonded over attempting to get blood stains out of their favourite purple shirts, and sitting in the common room with a book in one hand and a gun in the other. They had an odd mother/son relationship that they didn’t want to think much on. On mothers day he had brought her three books stolen from the library and bullets for that peculiar antique gun of hers. She’d brought him a human eye on his birthday that wasn’t even infected. It was so hard to get body parts from natural deaths these days. Their old neighbor had come to live with them not long after the first six months of surviving in Baker Street. Neither of them much liked Mrs. Turner anymore. But she was in their group now.

\---

Mrs. Hudson grabbed Sherlock’s wrist when he came in.

“She won’t open her eyes.”

Sherlock kept a neutral face regardless of the panic he felt within. He took a breath before turning to her, “Since when?”

“About twenty minutes after you left.”

He checked his watch. It was a pocket watch, his fathers that Mycroft had given him before he went into hiding. 

He’d been gone a little over an hour.

“Is the dark room still in order?”

She nodded.

The dark room was one of the more immediate additions to the house after the outbreak. They had taken what had been Sherlock’s windowless bathroom and painted it entirely black. There was not a lick of white anywhere in it. It was their safety zone.

“Where is she?”

“On the sofa. I’ve tried to see if maybe there was anoth-“

Sherlock gripped her shoulders, “Mrs. Hudson, I’ve told you that if we were ever to suspect that either of us has it, it was not your duty to find out.”

“She’s one of the few people we have left.”

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, “I know.” He slipped the sunglasses that had been hanging off the front of her shirt off and handed them to her. “Go to the dark room.”

“I want to hel-“

“Martha, I have lost many people throughout this and I am not going to lose you. Please. Go to the dark room.”

She looked at him for a moment then took the sunglasses he was holding out. “Do be careful, Sherlock.”

“Always.”

\---

Sherlock knocked on the wall in the sitting room to announce his presence. “Janet?”

“Sherlock? Is that you? Of course it is.” Mrs. Turner grumbled. She was sitting on the couch, back straight, feet together and facing the wall opposite of the couch like a soldier.

Sherlock grit his teeth. He had his sunglasses on protecting the white of his eyes. They had long ago burned all the white clothing and such in the flat. He sat down next to her, “Yes Janet. It’s me.”

“Did Martha send you in here? I bet she did. Never could stop fussing over me.”

“Janet, why won’t you open your eyes?”

The air in the room seemed too hot all of the sudden. The perfectly fine room now an oven.

“I don’t want to. Some days it is optional.” Her posture was more rigid then ever.

“But it’s not an option is it?” She didn’t say anything. “You’re allowed to be afraid, Janet. But you must tell me how it got in here? How did The White-“

“I don’t have The White!”

“Then open your eyes!” his voice overtaking her protest.

The room on top of the heat became still.

Her voice was quiet. Quieter then Sherlock had ever heard it, “I can’t, Sherlock.” Her wrinkled hand found his gloved one, “You know I can’t.”

“I do, Janet. Now please, how did it get in here?” he was running out of patience. They could all be in danger.

“It’s not important.”

Sherlock was tired of this, “Janet, it is very very important. I couldn’t protect you from it because you didn’t listen to the rules. There is to be no white anywhere. Yet you must have brought something with white in here. What did you do Janet? What did you bring?”

He searched her visually. Then he remembered, he’d seen her with it before.

“Your husband’s handkerchief.”

Her grip on his hand tightened. 

“Oh, Janet.” He briefly pressed his mouth to his shoulder in thought, trying to think of more to say. He squeezed her hand momentarily, and then left the room. He only stopped to throw his gloves into the fire they had constantly going for things like this. He made his way to the dark room.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked when he opened the door.

“I’m sorry.”

She clung to him and cried. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t good at comforting people. So he held very still in the pitch black room and waited for her to stop with his arms around her.

\---

They kept Mr. Turner in a room. It had a window, but it was barred. She was coherent till the third day. The fourth day they ran out of tea.

“Sherlock dear we have other drinks-“

“We are English, Mrs. Hudson. We need tea. I’ll be back soon.”

And he donned his sunglasses and left.

\---

He saw the man again, the one from the alley. He didn’t interact with him. He just saw him. He still had the cloth tied around his eyes and wasn’t wearing shoes. Nobody didn’t wear shoes. It spread the disease faster. Skin to skin contact. Sherlock had already gotten other gloves after Janet touched his.

He was standing in the middle of the street. He didn’t have the bandages wrapped around his feet this time. He watched the man wiggle his toes a bit.

Sherlock broke into what was a restaurant at one point that used to be next to 221B. He stole tea bags and turned back to the flat.

He glanced once more at the man before going back inside.

\---

They were attacked by a rogue group of victims two days later. There were six of them. Sherlock took one out with the umbrella he’d been carrying with him when it reached for him through a hole in the door it made with its hands. Mrs. Hudson had taken up firing at two in the back leaving Sherlock with three in the front. Sherlock took out one but the other two are stronger then the one he’d already disposed off. Mrs. Hudson came to where he was firing at one of the two. His gun made an empty clicking sound. He’s out of bullets. The other gun had run out two days ago. He’d thought he’d be fine with just one.

“I wouldn’t have wasted so many bullets shooting at the other two if I’d known you were running out!” she cried taking aim.

Both of the victims dropped dead before she could shoot.

The man was standing in the street, bare feet, eyes covered and all holding a still aimed gun at their door way.

He waved with a wiggle of his fingers and holstered the gun and turned to walk away.

“Stay here.” Sherlock went out after him.

\---

Sherlock ran up behind the man. He stopped short of him unsure of what to say.

“You’re the same one from the alleyway, aren’t your?” the man asked without turning around.

Sherlock blinked as it donned on him, “You’re blind.”

The man smirked. “Sure.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the side. “Yes well, um, that thing you did back there…it was…that was good.” Thanking people was never really his strong suit.

The smirk turned into a genuine smile, “Your welcome. It wasn’t that many.”

“How did you know?”

The man finally stopped, “Hmm?”

“How did you know how many there were if you’re blind?”

“I never said I was blind.” He started walking again.

To both his and Sherlock’s surprise, he followed.

“What are you then?”

The man paused and seemed to think it over.

“I’m very special. And extremely ordinary.”

\---

 

Sherlock continued to follow him.

“Are you going to be following me long?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Can I help you with something?” the man didn’t sound annoyed. Just curious.

“I don’t believe so.”

“Nice speaking to you then.” It wasn’t said rudely. Just as if the man was finished with the conversation and was ready to go.

Sherlock still found himself following him.

“Do you have a name little lost puppy?” he turned around entirely to him. Facing him. He had stubble. Two days worth if Sherlock were to guess.

Sherlock put a hand out then retracted it still unsure of the seeing situation, “Sherlock Holmes.”

The man put a hand out expectantly. Sherlock realized that the man hadn’t known Sherlock had put his out moments before. Sherlock took it. “Nice to meet you Mr. Holmes. I’m John. Feel free to follow me all the way home if you want but I’m not sure how much you’ll like it.”

“How’s that then?”

The man just smiled and started walking again.

Sherlock found himself staying put this time.

“One more thing Mr. Holmes, what type of bullets did that gun of yours take?”

A peculiar question. Sherlock answered then found himself on his way home.

\---

The next morning Sherlock found a box of the very bullets he needed on his doorstep.

\---

“Who was that man, dear?” 

Sherlock thought a moment, as he pulled mugs from the cupboard.

“Someone…new.”

\---

Mrs. Turner started trying to escape a day later. Clawing at the door and screaming. Mrs. Hudson stayed in the dark room. She couldn’t hear her from there.

\---

He hadn’t wanted to leave those few days later. He had to though if he wanted to get what he needed for the fingers. Mrs. Hudson had managed to get a hold of fingers that came off a person who died of natural causes. Sherlock was over the moon. 

Sherlock still experimented. He continued them in a fleeting hope that one day the world would be right again and the worst thing anyone would have to worry about was petty crime. He never voiced this though. Ridiculously emotional and sentimental. 

He’d taken his guns with him and went into the big empty world. He managed to get what he needed out of someone’s old air conditioner. He was on his way back when he heard shouting. He didn’t think, he ran.

He got around the corner to see Mrs. Hudson in the street with Mrs. Turner coming after her. He knew he couldn’t trust himself not to hit Mrs. Hudson if he were to shoot from this distance.

He didn’t need to. 

Once more a victim was shot down by John before either of them could do anything.

She started towards Mrs. Turner but seemed to think better of but then started going towards her again. John came over to her and took her by shoulders gently. She leaned back on him.

Sherlock caught up and glanced at Mrs. Turner. There was a bullet straight through her heart. Crack shot.

“Someone you knew?” John asked over Mrs. Hudson who had switched and was now curled into Sherlock.

“She was,” he glanced at Mrs. Hudson, “She was my neighbor.”

\---

“We can’t go back in there, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson said looking at him after composing herself.

“How’d she get out?” 

“She clawed her way out of the door. Never would have guessed she could have. The entire place is covered in blood.” Mrs. Hudson looked around Sherlock vacantly at the house.

Sherlock opened his mouth but closed it. She was right. 

“I’m so sorry mate.” John said running a hand through his shortish blonde hair. It wasn’t to long but it hung just above his collar.

Sherlock mentally catalogued what they had left. Two guns, the clothes on their backs, and thankfully shoes. He was very glad Mrs. Hudson had been wearing shoes when she attacked. She used to wear heals before the outbreak, somewhere through all this though it had turned into converse. She had needed tie up shoes and they just happened to be what Sherlock brought her.

“Where will we go now, dear?”

“I’ll think of something.” It got quiet as Sherlock thought of places they could go. His first thought was Lestrade. His chest hurt a moment thinking of him. Even after it was called an apocalypse Lestrade had refused to stop working, refused to stop helping people. 

Lost in his own thought he hadn’t picked up on the awkwardness that had settled over the trio.

“I guess I could take you back to my place. You know, temporarily, you could stay there. Both of you.” John said with a shrug. He had the bandages on his feet again.

“And where will you be taking us?” Sherlock looked at John. He found it much harder to read John then most people with that cloth tied around his eyes.

John exhaled through his teeth like he hadn’t realized it be now he’d have to take them, “Right I guess. No time like the present.” He turned around and started walking. He didn’t say anything, just expected them to follow. They did.

He led them back down the alleyway John had saved Sherlock in, around the corner and deeper into the dark backstreets.

“I don’t suppose either of you have a torch on you?” John asked. No one said anything. “Wasn’t really expecting you too. Just, eh, keep your eyes peeled. A bit hard to move round here.”

Sherlock noted he didn’t seem to have a problem. He stopped in front of a grey-green painted door on the side of a brick wall. There was no indication the door led anywhere, it was completely blank. There wasn’t even a door knob or handle.

“Home sweet home.” John hefted his weight against the door and with a harsh gravely sound it seemingly reluctantly opened.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black. He nearly tripped over John who was on his knees scrabbling his fingers over the wall. “You’re not wearing any white are- stupid question. No one wears white anymore.” He finally managed to do whatever he was doing and fairy lights came on. They outlined the whole of the tiny windowless place. There were four rooms and they were all moderately small. The room they were standing in had an old bean bag and more fairy lights wrapped around it. The white lights were on the floor and created trails and paths.

“It used to be a storage area. Sorry about the lack of windows. This is the…well I call it the injury room because this is mostly where I tumble to then pass out.” He smiled like it was a joke, judging from the blood stains on the floor it wasn’t. “Uh, OK that room is the storage room thing, bathroom and bedroom.” He gestured to each room as he spoke.

“Is that jam? And bread?” Mrs. Hudson was very excited.

“It is indeed.” John was smiling.

Mrs. Hudson began fussing over the food while Sherlock and John went back into the bedroom area. It was really just another room with light grey unpainted cement walls decorated with fairy lights. There was a collection of mats thrown around on the floor covered in blankets. The entire floor was covered with mats in the bedroom. Everywhere else had wooden floors.

“The lights. It’s leaning more towards not being blind.” Sherlock said slinking down next to John who was sitting leaning against the wall.

John just smirked. “Sure.”

“Cryptic.”

This got a genuine smile out of John as Mrs. Hudson came in with bread and jam.

“I haven’t had jam in forever.” She set the plate on the mat and picked up a piece.

John picked up a piece, “I can get actual candles, though they’re hard to come by. Fairy lights are easy though. Nobody every takes those.”

“Except you.” Sherlock examined a piece of bread sceptically.

“Except me.”

\---

Mrs. Hudson fell asleep shortly after that emotionally and physically drained curled under Sherlock’s jacket. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had been sleeping in the same room for quite some time. After Mrs. Hudson had killed those three while Sherlock had slept it became a silent agreement to make sure they were together. John was on his back, he taken off his jacket and had it wadded up under his head. His hands were behind his head and he seemed to be staring up at the ceiling. Except he still had his eyes covered. His hands and feet were both unwrapped. He had his legs bent and his feet flat on the mat.

“How did you happen to be there?” Sherlock asked lying almost identically to John except he was looking at the fairy lights. Seeing them

John didn’t say anything; just let the relaxed smile on his face answer for him.

“How reasonable of a person are you Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock.”

“How reasonable of a person are you Sherlock?” John asked the ceiling.

Sherlock looked over at him, “I’ve survived. I believe that shows some form of being reasonable.”

“Or resourceful.” John still wasn’t looking at him.

“True.”

John turned over, “Feel free to stay here as long as you like Sherlock. Just don’t be prepared to have all your questions answered.” He faced Sherlock momentarily, “Which I have a feeling might be an issue for someone like you.” He rolled back over to face the wall that same damn smile on his face.

Very cryptic indeed.

\---

They worked around each other. Mrs. Hudson adopted the storage room as her own. They had dragged pads into it and given her the lion’s share of the blankets, moving all the food and supplies into the injury room. Sherlock didn’t worry about not being in the same room with her, there weren’t any windows to cause danger.

\---

Sherlock found himself counting how often John would breath in an hour. He would sometimes look at John while he slept. He would angle himself to try and see under the cloth but to no avail. Most nights he just watched. Sometimes he realised this could be viewed as creepy, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Some nights he and John would talk for hours about nothing. Nothing relevant. Nothing important. Nothing to help Sherlock crack to enigma that was John. He didn’t even know his last name.

\---

Sherlock mentioned he liked Chinese food one night. Casual conversation, staring, well he was staring, up at the fairy lights. That day John had gone out and come back with a load of rice and a candle for Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson had hugged him and said he had been stupid for putting himself in danger and shouldn’t have but was chuffed that he did. Sherlock had sat outside with Mrs. Hudson that day. She liked to get out in the sunlight at least once a day.

“Sherlock, dear, I have a question.”

He looked over to her from where he had been keeping watch, “Hmm?”

“Are you and…are you and John, oh you know.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Together, dear. In a relationship.”

Both Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, “No. Is there something that has led you to believe we are?”

“You stare at him quite a bit, and sometimes he brings you things.”

“He brings you things as well.” Sherlock felt inclined to point out.

“Yes but I’m probably as old as his mother. It’s like when you bring your mother flowers from the garden, or the paper from the stoop. It’s just little things of family bonding. With you though, I don’t know.” She trailed off.

“I’ll let you know if we are, Mrs. Hudson.”

\---

One night Sherlock turned over and prodded John in the shoulder. The room was darker then oblivion, they had unplugged the fairy lights that night.

“Name. Last name.”

“What?”

“It’s not a question. It’s a command. Name.”

John raised an eyebrow that Sherlock could not see. He’d taken off the cloth around his eyes, but Sherlock didn’t know that. Sherlock had seen it off of him before, but only when John’s face was buried into his arms, just the back of a head.

“Watson. Dr. John H. Watson.”

Sherlock became quiet. A bit unsure.

“Did that truly just work?”

“For one time only. I will however trade you a question for a question. Are you French? Sherlock sounds French.”

Sherlock chuckled, “English. Very.”

“Truly?”

“Does that count as a question?”

John propped himself up on his elbow, “I suppose it does.”

He contemplated his question. He had a lot. He had a feeling though if he asked John if he was blind this opportunity wouldn’t arise again. He played it safe. “What does the H stand for?”

“Hamish. Not what I thought you would ask. Alright here’s another. Who’s Mrs. Hudson to you?”

“She’s my mother.” The answer came before he had time to think it over. It felt ridiculously natural to refer to her that way. “Do you have any family left?”

“Nope. Parent died when I was a child and sister died before the breakout. Drank herself to death.” 

It was quiet for a moment, and then Sherlock spoke again, “Where you close with her?”

“Towards the end.”

They lay there in silence. 

“Who were you?” the question wasn’t something somebody would have asked before the breakout. Now it was as common as wanting to know someone’s birthday.

“I was a consulting detective.” He waited for the question that almost always followed that. ‘What’s a consulting detective?’

“That’s interesting. You must have felt like you had some power with the police coming to you and all that.” John was apparently smarter then the average bear.

“And you?”

“I was in the military. I was a Doctor.”

“You’re still a Doctor.”

“And you’re still a detective. Still trying to figure out the unknown.” John laughed almost to himself. He’d lain back down and his voice was ebbed with sleep.

He patted Sherlock’s hand in the dark as if it was a part of his giggles. It stayed on top of Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was because John had fallen asleep, or his need for touch, or something else.

He whispered quietly into the darkness, “Goodnight, Dr. Watson.”

\---

When Sherlock woke up John was gone. Sherlock turned back on the fairy lights. Scribbled on the wall in pencil was ‘be back soon’. Sherlock didn’t know why but that made him smile.

\---

When John came back in the evening he had books. 

“I wasn’t sure what I was grabbing but I am pretty sure most of them are out of the classic literature section. Though it could all be porn for what I know. There isn’t really anything else to do around here and I know you mentioned books, Mrs. Hudson.” He set the large pile down near the door in the injury room. 

“How did you manage to carry all these home without getting attacked?” Sherlock asked.

And as usual John did nothing but smile knowingly. Sherlock wanted to punch him sometimes.

Mrs. Hudson hugged him and kissed his forehead and tried to pretend she wasn’t crying with joy. She grabbed The Great Gatsby and hid in her room. John went back to the bedroom and Sherlock followed.

“How?” John looked up from where he was unwrapping his feet.

“Hmm?”

“How did you manage to know where the classic literature was? What is with the bandages on your feet?” John started to smirk, “I will in fact punch you in the face if you smirk at me.”

He bit his bottom lip in a poor attempt to hide a smile” There are some things people don’t talk about.”

“Stiff upper lip and soldier on, right?”

“I’ll help you look for another place to stay tomorrow if you like. I told you I wouldn’t answer your questions. I knew it would drive you mad.”

“You answered some last night.”

“Yes, and they were very uninteresting answers. Bored of me yet Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock answered without thinking, “Absolutely not.”

\---

Mrs. Hudson handed John a list over breakfast the next morning. 

“I was going through the books you gave me, and I must say I am truly happy with the titles. I was wondering though if any of these would be available.” She had written a list out on a sheet of paper torn from the back of one of the books.

“I’m sure I’d be able to if Sherlock were to help me.”

Sherlock looked up from the snack food cake he had been debating whether was edible. He thought for a moment, “I suppose.”

Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together “Lovely!” she hugged both of them and fussed over getting them tea from the electric kettle John had.

\---

“Why am I coming along?”

“I need you to help me find the book titles.”

They were walking down the alleyway; John was barefoot and had the list in one hand and his gun in the other. Sherlock followed him; he’d left his overcoat behind. It was getting a bit warmer out.

John was confusing. Sherlock did not do well with confusing. He knew people. He knew their eating habits, the state of their parent’s marriage, how much they hated their neighbours, their dirty secrets, and unfulfilled wishes. He did not know John though.

John stopped suddenly pulling Sherlock from his mind, “Still have your guns?”

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna need them.”

The horde came from in front of them.

“We could just turn around-”

“No point, there’s three coming up from that way.” John said. Sherlock hadn’t even seen the horde till moments after John announced them. “There is something like seven of them in front of us. Maybe more. I’m not sure. Three behind.”

John turned and fired three times, “Make that one behind.”

They worked together in a rhythm that Sherlock hadn’t experienced before. He’d fought with other people but something about their two fighting styles clicked. Sherlock would shoot dangerously, wounding but unintentionally never killing, and John would take that to his advantage and finish them off. 

There had been 12 in all. Sherlock could feel the buzz of adrenaline under his skin. “Gone?” he panted.

“Yeah,” John took a breath, “I’m pretty sure.” 

Sherlock looked down at him. His eyes twitched with his heartbeat. Before he knew what he was doing, he leaned down to kiss him.

John put a hand on his chest, “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

“Everything I do know right now is telling me pointedly to do this.”

John moved his other hand to Sherlock’s face. “In time, Sherlock.” He turned to keep walking. Sherlock still followed. 

John stopped short and Sherlock nearly ran into the back of him. He reached up and grabbed Sherlock’s head and pulled him down, kissing his cheek, before releasing him and continuing on.

\----

Sherlock started over thinking it. It was an accident. Simply adrenaline. Nothing to think twice about.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it though.

His lips against his skin, if only for a moment. They were chap but soft around the edges. He still wasn’t sure of John’s seeing capability so he walked slightly behind John so he could brush his fingers over his cheek in peace.

There was blood on John’s old beat up brown jacket he was wearing. He didn’t seem aware.

“We’ll have to burn it.”

John stopped and faced him, “Pardon?”

“Your jacket, there’s blood on it.”

“Probably.” He didn’t freak out like he was supposed too.

“Turn around.”

John did as he was told and Sherlock unzipped John’s jacket and helped him throw it aside. The gloves Sherlock had been wearing went with it.

“Second pair of gloves this month.”

“First jacket in…I don’t even know.”

Sherlock was surprised; he’d barely been able to keep his own blood free. Most people went through coats like tissues. He only clung to his for sentimental reasons he would rather not admit to himself.

“You’re careful.”

“And cold.” John was left in his reddish button down. Sherlock was wearing a suit jacket over another long sleeve shirt. He was a bit chilly in his layers. Still to warm to wear his coat. They were technically the only clothes he had left after Mrs. Turner until he and John had gone out and gotten him others. He was only disappointed he’d ended up left with his stripy blue shirt instead of one of the others he favoured more. He pushed it out of his mind. It was irrelevant. 

“Do you have another jacket?”

“No, I didn’t think I’d need too.”

Sherlock glanced around, “I suppose we could go to a store.”

John made a noncommittal sound in his throat and started walking again with complete confidence that Sherlock would follow him.

He did.

They stopped at a store Sherlock pointed out, and John picked out a new jacket. It had two leather patches, one on the shoulder and another other on the elbow.

“Do I look good?” John did a 360 spin.

Sherlock answered honestly, “Yes.” It was in fact a difficult feet looking decent when haircuts and shaving wasn’t always an option.

John’s face lost the teasing grin and was blushing slightly. If he knew he was he shrugged it off and walked towards the exit.

When they went out to the street, John stopped.

“Is tonight a full moon or something?”

Sherlock looked in the area John gestured towards. There were about five victims coming around the corner.

“Any in the direction of home?”

John was quiet for a moment shifting his weight, “No.”

They ran for it.

They ran for home.

\---

They told Mrs. Hudson why there lack of books that night. She said she rather them be alive and that she really liked John’s new jacket.

She kissed them both on the forehead; Sherlock had to bend down, and then she made them sandwiches.

That night when they went to bed John was definitely holding Sherlock’s hand.

\---

They set out for the library again two weeks later. Every night Sherlock and John had fallen asleep with John holding Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock had started to deduce John from the calluses on his hand the firmness of his hold, but decided to try to hold off for the sake of wanting John to simply tell him himself.

There was the night Sherlock had kissed him. 

He had been fairly certain John was asleep, he’d leaned over and kissed John on the temple and had started to lay back down when John’s finger caught his t-shirt collar and pulled him over to him. He’d kissed Sherlock back on the forehead. The chap but soft around the edges lips pressed silently to his forehead in the darkness of the room. Sherlock found himself no longer breathing until John had moved to lay back down. He took Sherlock’s arm with him and pulled it around himself. Fingers intertwined for the first time.

Now he found himself walking once again towards the library.

He found it strange that he should be following John. Like it was backwards. Maybe if they had met in another time, in another place, Sherlock would be the one walking confidently away knowing he would follow him. But for now they were as they were.

The library was rather eerie. It had no power; the doors had long been ripped from their hinges. The place had been torn through, books shredded and stolen. Yet a lot of books remained on the shelf. There were some people camped out inside.

As they stepped over glass and walked through the door, John dug the list out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock, “First book?”

They headed right, towards the romance novels to where they hoped Mrs. Hudson’s book would be.

“I don’t know past area. You are probably going to have to find the title.” Sherlock watched as a little boy and girl who’d been with the family camped in the children’s section stared at them from around corners and shelves.

Sherlock found the book and handed it to John. He read the next one on the list and John led them to the correct section. They did this for a few more nooks and the children continued to follow. Eventually John turned to the children, “Alan, Jen, I know you know your not supposed to talk to me.”

“We wasn’t talking, just following.” The boy said.

John gave a playfully haggard sigh, “Well, you know you’re not supposed to be following me either.” He put a hand in the boy’s hair, “Get on then, run along.” He gave him a gentle nudge away, “Go on.”

“My sister likes your husband.” The little girl stared from around her brother’s shoulder, “Who is he?” Joseph continued.

“His names Sherlock, he’s not my husband, and you should probably scamper-“

“What are you children doing? You know you are to never speak to this man! You know that!” the old woman making a fuss clapped her hands like clearing pidgins and sent the children running.

“I’m sor-“

“And you! You know to stay away from them! You demon! How dare you trick my grandchildren into talking to you! Leave! Get away from here! Leave!”

“Mrs. Hilcotch it wasn’-“

“LEAVE!”

John turned for the door, “Come on then, Sherlock.”

\---

He watched John walk out of the library and rest a hand on his forehead. He stood there with clenched jaw, breathing through his nose.

“I’m not a demon, you know.” John said to Sherlock looking in his direction.

“I know.”

“I’m just…fuck.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair a few times. He took a step and nearly tripped down the stairs in front of him, Sherlock caught his shoulder. John looked again towards him. Sherlock took John’s hand, and led John down the steps.

They walked a ways hand in hand.

“If you didn’t have too, would you stay with me?” John asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

He exhaled through his nose again, “Are we near a safe place?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just started leading them towards the nearest one. They ended up in what had been a gardening store; they were sitting on a bench inside in front of what had once been a window.

John licked his lips and began, “I didn’t always think.”

Sherlock said nothing, he just waited.

John’s face looked pained, “This is going to sound stupid, but can I hold your guns while I say this?”

“Why?”

“You might be tempted to use them.”

“John I highly doubt anything you say will upset me, much less enough to use my guns.” Sherlock took his other hand.

John gave a pained laugh as if he’d heard that before, he licked his lips again slowly started to pull at the knot on the cloth around his eyes. “Don’t... freak out.” He said it quietly enough Sherlock was almost certain he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

The skin was lighter under the cloth; the hair that was usually covered by it wasn’t as blonde from where the sun couldn’t get to it.

But Sherlock wasn’t looking at that.

From lid to lid John’s eyes where white.

“You’re infected,” Sherlock said calmly.

“I’m vaccinated.” John looked as though he were waiting for Sherlock to call him a monster, possibly attack him, and turn tail. 

“How does that work?”

John breathed out like he was laughing with relief, “Don’t I repulse you Mr. Holmes?”

“You fascinate me.”

John leaned forward and kissed him.

\---

 

It seemed innocent. Just lips against lips, as if John was simply saying ‘thank you’. John broke the kiss and looked at Sherlock.

“Can you see?”

“No.”

“You have fantastic aim for a blind man. My lips, first try.” 

John chuckled and crossed his legs on the bench, “I can sort of see.” He tapped his foot, “I don’t want to say I can see through my feet. That’s not quite how it works.” 

He leaned in and kissed him again before continuing, “I worked at a research centre looking for a vaccine, a cure had long been deemed impossible.” 

He squeezed their fingers together seemingly for courage, “They were becoming more and more pressed for time by the minute. The project leader caught it when they were just months away from finding the vaccine. Months, Sherlock.” He paused briefly searching Sherlock’s face with blind eyes, “Progressively they all slowly began to catch it. There were eight of us left when the project was deemed useless. They gave me what they had, told me who was better to tell me their symptoms then a Doctor. I took it Sherlock, and-“he stopped for a moment and took a breath and looked up willing himself not break, “it hurt.” He whispered. “It hurt so fucking much.”

He took another breath while looking up, but it wasn’t stopping the tears this time, “The babbling? The muttering? They’re not just talking to no one Sherlock. The White, it talks to you. It antagonizes you.” He wiped the tears off with the back of his hand, “It lasted three hours. I felt my vision going, everything going white. I tried to keep calm, but I could feel myself going blind, Sherlock.” 

He poked his tongue into his cheek and seemed to be thinking of how to continue. Sherlock knew he was just buying time. “They told me I had started muttering to myself and they were afraid they had lost me. Of course I had been. The White talks back, Sherlock. It fucking speaks to you. It talks and responds. I’ve never experienced anything else as terrible as a talking disease and I’ve been in Afghanistan.” He smiled painfully as if he needed that bad joke to work, to smile for just a second. “When I woke up, I was on a bed, there was an IV in my arm and I couldn’t see. All I knew is that my feet hurt. Burned. Like having shampoo in your eyes except it was my feet. I remember trying to get out of the bed, but they kept telling me to stay down. Because-“ he hissed a breath through his teeth as if he were angry that he might be upset again, “because they were afraid I might be contagious still. They wouldn’t come in the room; they were talking to me over an intercom. I remember them telling me to stop touching the IV in my arm. I don’t remember if I ever actually got the IV out, but I remember I had to get my shoes off. I had to get my fucking shoes off right then. Then I stood up. And I don’t know it was like, I could see where it was in my brain by where I was standing. I bet that sounds like complete shit.”

Sherlock spoke for the first time since John had started, “Like radar?”

“I guess. It’s like; when I’m standing I can feel where things are through the ground. Like with my feet flat on the ground,” he stood up, “Like I know there are twelve shelves in here, the register is over there and there are pots on the floor and spilled bags of what I’m guessing to be potting soil.”

Sherlock looked around, he was right.

“I get the shape and it’s usually pretty easy to guess what it is from there.”

“How far do you know where things are?”

“I’m not sure. How far away is the yarn store?”

Sherlock poked his head out where the glass from the window used to be, “About two blocks.” Sherlock stood up, “How close am I?”

“Pretty close, getting closer, very close. Touching me.” Sherlock kissed him. He kissed him trying to make him forget, forget the pain and hurt and suffering. 

Because he and John were alive. But more then that, they were together.


End file.
